


Girl with a Smooth Liquidation

by mahoni



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spy, Community: kissbingo, Friendship, Gen, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahoni/pseuds/mahoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob and Vicky go under cover, and Bob has to dance. In public. Poor Bob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girl with a Smooth Liquidation

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Short Skirt/Long Jacket" by Cake. Continuation of AU begun in "Surrounded by a Senseless Scene".

By the time Bob came out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth, Vicky had changed into something more comfortable. He did a double-take, and then huffed.

"Don't you have your own sweatshirts?" he said. "You're that hard up that you have to steal mine?"

Vicky sat cross-legged on the bed in cut-off sweatpants, thick knitted socks and Bob's Ensiferum hoodie, which he had actually been looking for after getting out of the shower. She smiled at him without looking up from her laptop.

"Yes, I have sweatshirts, but I left them home. I figured I might as well not take up space in my luggage with them since I knew you'd bring a couple dozen --" she paused to type something, and then added, "And if I wear yours, you'll wash them and that's less laundry for me to do."

Bob made a face, even though she still wasn't looking at him. "You know, just for that, I think I'll stop doing laundry for a while. See how you like wearing my hoodies when they're all smelly and shit."

At that Vicky did look up, and laughed. "Oh right, like _I_ would be the one to cave first. Does this sound familiar?" She pitched her voice high and whiny. "Why can't you hang up your towel after you get out of the shower, what's so hard about washing a fucking dish that you have to leave it sitting on the counter, I thought you said you were going to take out the trash, oh fine I'll do it myself you fucking slob.'"

Bob snagged the TV remote and an Xbox controller off the top of the television and flopped down on the bed next to her, scooting back to lean against the headboard. "I do not sound like that."

"You so fucking do."

"I do not sound like a _five year old girl_ , Jesus." He switched on the TV and flipped through to his Xbox account. "But you are a fucking slob. At least you got that part right."

Vicky unfolded her legs and kicked him in the ankle, and then shut her computer and stretched with a yawn.

Bob glanced at the laptop. "So what's new with the family?"

'Family' in this case being the rest of the team -- since Vicky was on point everyone but Bob (who was The Boyfriend for this op) had code names and phrases set up to look like family connections and conversations.

They'd been hearing quite a bit lately from Grandpa Ralph about his high blood pressure, a.k.a. Brian about how this damn job was taking way too long on their end.

Vicky had spoken with their mark a couple of times, discreetly and as part of her cover job as a fine art dealer, but so far the guy hadn't made any move to take her on as a customer. Apparently the guy only worked with people he considered friends, and he hadn't decided they were friend material yet. It wasn't necessarily their fault; their mark's brother had recently died (mysteriously; their intel suggested there may have been some fraternal strife that resulted in the 'accidental' overdose), and his grief, real or fake, had caused him to become a bit withdrawn in the professional arena.

Brian had gone ahead and had Pete and Patrick start working a few other angles to try to find someone who was maybe more accessible, Patrick via his algorithms and Pete via his insanely diverse and multitudinous scene, underground, business and family connections. Not that they hadn't done their research to begin with, but they also couldn't just hit a dead end and give up.

"Actually, we finally heard from Aunt Martha."

Bob froze for just a split second, which was unfortunately long enough for his guy on the game to get beheaded by the alien he was fighting. 'Aunt Martha' was Skiba, who'd been in deep cover for almost eight months. No one had heard a word from him; he wouldn't get in touch with his contact on the team -- Greta, Vicky's 'sister', who was their so-called aunt's 'favorite niece' -- until he was solid with his marks or he had information that absolutely could not wait.

When Bob glanced at Vicky again she was smiling slightly. Slightly smugly, in fact, and if she'd been looking at him instead of his newly dead avatar Bob might have wondered what she thought she knew about himself and Matt.

Probably everything, considering this was Vicky and figuring out peoples' secrets was her job.

Actually, Bob's entire team probably knew everything there was to know about him and Matt, for exactly the same reason. He sighed. His team was worse than his mother, seriously.

"Martha's finally back from her South American tour," Vicky added.

Bob paused his game and moved to put down his controller, but Vicky waved a hand.

"Nah, it's nothing big. It was a just a 'hi, it's all good' check-in."

"Oh. Well, that's good. It's been a while."

He navigated up and down the on screen menu aimlessly for a moment, trying to figure out a nonchalant way to ask...he didn't even know what. It wasn't that he'd been particularly worried about Matt. Matt was good at his job, and Bob had his own job to do that didn't allow time for sitting around wringing his hands. Still, he was relieved that Matt had resurfaced. He'd have been relieved if it had been any of his team checking in after so many months of radio silence, but this...this was relieved, plus something. Bob didn't know what, though. Whatever it was, it bothered him a little.

"Though I have to admit," he said finally. "I was really hoping it'd be that pervy little fucker you've been making eyes at for fucking ever."

"Actually, yeah, we finally got a hit." Vicky leaned over to put the laptop on the bedside table and grabbed her own game controller. "Artie called while you were in the shower." She grinned. "He says there's a club he wants to take us out to. Have a few martinis. Do a little dancing. Talk a little business."

"Shit, _finally_ ," Bob muttered.

"No kidding." Vicky took Bob's controller long enough to invite herself into his party. "I thought he was never gonna bite."

She settled back against the headboard beside him and they started stalking each other through the game. Which, Bob did tend to get a little impatient when jobs went slow, but at least Vicky was a good fake girlfriend and -- other than the slob thing and the occasional middle-of-the-night-blanket-stealing thing -- an awesome roommate. She was easy to get along with, they liked the same video games, she liked to shower in the morning where he liked to shower at night, she never ate his stash of fridge snacks, she didn't have phone sex with Greta when he was in the room. Stuff like that.

It was a lot better than the last time he'd been on assignment. That time, he'd spent six months sharing a tiny dump and running surveillance with Pete fucking Wentz. By the end of it he was pretty much ready to stuff Wentz and his jittery, yammering, donkey-laughing ass down the trash chute.

"Wait," Bob said. "You said dancing, didn't you." He made a face at Vicky when she laughed, though he kept his eyes on the game. "Fucking great. I hope the guy doesn't actually expect me to dance."

"I bet he will," Vicky said. "I'll make sure he does. Like, I'll tell him how you just love to dance and be all, show him your moves, honey."

"And I will kick your ass right there on the dance floor." Bob emphasized his point by blowing away her avatar on the screen.

Unfortunately she respawned on a catwalk above him with a clear line of sight and nowhere for him to hide, and nailed him right back.

"You can try, baby," she said.

*

One thing Bob had learned about flipping identities was to not bother trying to change the essentials when he was undercover. If he hated his mark's favorite music, he didn't pretend like he loved it; if watching a mark hit his girlfriend pissed him off, he didn't try to hide it; if standing back while some poor schmuck got his fingers cut off just about made him want to barf, he didn't worry about acting tough, he just aimed for the shoes of the sick fucker doing the cutting.

Acting natural about shit like that let him focus on keeping bigger things hidden, like remembering his fake name and details about his fake life; and like stopping himself from interfering when a mark killed somebody, because interfering means arresting or lethal force, and maybe the mark hasn't led them to the big fish yet.

Art Johns heaved his considerable bulk onto the stool beside Bob and handed Bob one of the drinks he'd brought. Bob accepted it with a nod of thanks. It would be a dry martini, which Bob hated. Art assumed everybody liked dry martinis, and if they didn't, he didn't care.

People who wanted to be his friend learned to like them too, but Bob had never met a gin he could drink with a straight face. The first time Art took them out for drinks Bob had told him straight up that he hated gin but fuck it, if Art was buying Bob would drink whatever the hell he put in front of him. Art had thought it was hilarious and said to Vicky, "I like your boy, Becky. He don't bullshit." Score one for Bob.

"I don't know, Richie," Art said over the noise of the bar. He had a habit of abbreviating everybody's name no matter how they introduced themselves. Bob and Victoria were Richard and Rebecca to everyone but Art, to whom they were Richie and Becky. "Becky seems like way too much woman for you."

This was the sixth time they'd met Art for drinks, and it was the sixth time Art had said that. Bob followed Art's lingering gaze to the dance floor. Vicky was wearing a red patent-leather dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and spike heels that made her even taller than Bob than she usually was. She looked amazing, and just by looking at her anyone could tell she knew it.

Of course, it was all directed squarely at Art. Art was one of those creepy guys who loved women who acted slutty around him. He'd do business with anybody who had the money and checked out through the grapevine, but he responded faster to a pretty, sexy woman. That was why Vicky got the job of reeling him in. The business regarding his brother's death had slowed things down, but eventually he'd fallen for her line. And her curves.

Art was also one of those guys who had a random old-fashioned streak running through his perv. He'd leer and insinuate all over the place but he wouldn't try to cop a feel or get her into bed so long as she had a boyfriend or a husband. That was why Bob was along for the ride.

While they watched Vicky dance, a guy near her got in close, slinging an arm around her waist and grinding against her. She grabbed him by the hair and kissed him hard. Bob bit his lip to not laugh. He'd seen that sort of thing play out too many times to count, and it was always hilarious: Vicky would kiss the poor bastard until he was flailing for breath, and then dump him on the floor and possibly _accidentally_ kick him in the balls.

It was a new scenario for Art, though, and his eyes narrowed.

"That's not right," he said. He looked at Bob. "You just let her do shit like that?"

Bob shrugged, only stifling his grin a little. "Rebecca can take care of herself."

Just as he directed Art's attention back to the dance floor, Vicky released her would-be dance partner. The guy staggered back; he might not have fallen on his ass after all, except that Vicky got a hold of the front waistband of his tight pants and yanked up as hard as she could. The guy grabbed his junk and collapsed to his knees.

Art howled. His martini sloshed down the front of his shirt. The wet spot was barely noticeable among the splotchy sweat stains, but it left him without much martini. While Art got himself under control, Bob waved down the bartender and motioned for another of what Art was having. He was tempted to give Art his own martini, but he knew Art would not appreciate that.

Vicky swept up to them, dark eyes shining from the dancing and the brief violence. She nestled herself between Bob's knees and looped her arms around his neck.

"Baby, I got a bad taste in my mouth," she said, her mouth twisting in a devious little pout.

Bob raised his eyebrows innocently and held up his martini. Vicky's pout broadened to a quick grin; she took the martini and knocked it back, and then she caught Bob in a deep, filthy kiss. She hadn't swallowed down all of the martini and her tongue pushed the dry, bitter flavor into his mouth. He managed not to gag, but only just, and he felt her smile. He was _so_ going to get her back for that. She knew how much he hated gin.

But he still made it look good, kissing her back just as dirty and letting his hands explore the thin chain lacing up the back of her dress and the leather hugging her hips and ass. Not for the first time he marveled at the fact that she could even _move_ in that dress, never mind that it was actually, even outside of cover jobs like this, one of her favorites.

Seeing as she actually liked him and beyond the martini ambush didn't want to fuck him up at the moment, she broke the kiss before air got to be an issue.

"Mm, better." She turned in the circle of Bob's arms and leaned back against him. "How's things, Art? You still thinking about that Ross piece you saw at the gallery last week? Can I put a 'sold' on it for you?"

Vicky's cover was running an indie chic art gallery in the downtown arts district. It was a legit gallery, and she was legitimately qualified for the job. When Vicky wasn't shredding targets at the shooting range or schooling the bad-ass hand-to-hand trainers in their own area of expertise she was buried in art magazines and books. Her apartment had approximately three pieces of furniture, but the walls were covered in art and she only bought shelves and side tables when she bought a three-dimensional piece that needed someplace to live higher than the floor. So other than the small fact of being an undercover ATF agent, her job as an art expert and enthusiast was pretty damn close to legit too.

Bob's cover was as a lame computer programmer at a tech company. He felt that was somewhat unfair, but since neither drumming nor fostering rescue dogs were very good cover jobs he was stuck with whatever Brian came up with.

While Art made faces and tried to talk his way out of buying the piece -- "I don't know, Becky, too many fucking birds and shit for my taste" "But Nita loves it, Artie, you know she's going to be disappointed if she doesn't get it for her birthday" "I know, I know. Shit. She couldn't have decided she just had to have a fucking Jag or something sensible like that?" -- Bob noticed a guy wending his way through the crowd toward them.

The guy was checking Vicky out pretty blatantly when he came up behind Art and thumped Art on the back.

"Artie, you drunk yet or did you save some for me?"

Art shifted his bulk on his bar stool to look around and smiled. "I think they've got enough behind the bar to get us both drunk, Matson." He turned to Bob and Vicky and tilted his head at his friend. "Becky, Richie, I'd like you to meet my friend Randy Matson."

"Randall," the man said. He came around Art, still zeroed in on Vicky as he said, "It's a pleasure."

Matson was thin and tall, clearly middle-aged but proportioned like a teenager who hasn't grown into his hands and feet yet. His clothes were nice, but between the overly-gelled slicked-back hair and the way he made absolutely no attempt to make his smile look like anything other than a leer he oozed sleazebag.

"Nice to meet you," Vicky said, keeping her tone politely interested. She moved slowly, uncoiling herself from where she'd snuggled back against Bob. It looked languid and sensual, but it was actually calculated. She wasn't sure how best to react to the new player and wanted to give Art a chance to offer a little more information before she settled on a first impression.

Matson moved in a little closer and held out a hand; as Vicky raised her hand, Art said, "Randy handles my finances. He's good at numbers and shit, lot of people with a lot of money trust him with their money." Art said it in his easy-going way, but he gave Bob and Vicky a steady, sharp glance when he added, "You do business with me, you'll get to know Randy well."

Catching Vicky's offered hand, Matson gave her a little tug; she went with it, letting herself wobble a little in her heels so she ended up falling toward Matson. Bob did the good boyfriend thing and caught her hips to steady her before she ended up actually in Matson's arms, but pretended not to notice when Matson wouldn't let her back up, and when she didn't try too hard to do so.

"Be more of a pleasure if I didn't step on your feet before we even got out on the dance floor," she said ruefully. "Sorry about that." Bob couldn't see, but he bet she had her coy, flirty little suppressed smile on. "Rebecca." She reached back, sliding her hand up the inside of Bob's thigh as she said, "And this is my boyfriend Richard."

Bob stood, casually removing her hand and palming the phone she slipped him. He stuck the phone in his pocket while he reached around Vicky to shake Matson's hand.

"Hey," he said.

Matson shot him a dismissive glance that Bob met with a hard look. He had to act like he felt the guy was potential competition or risk pissing him off and endangering their cover, but for chrissakes. Bob really fucking hated dickheads like this guy.

Bob had to tilt his head up to get his chin over Vicky's shoulder to talk to her, and he saw Matson smirk at that. Bob occasionally felt a little self-conscious about the height difference when he and Vicky had to make like lovers or marrieds, but at the same time he knew that was part of the point. A tall, smoking hot babe like Vicky dating an average guy like Bob let other average guys think they had a shot with her, and let tall guys like Matson figure snagging her from shorty would be a slam-dunk. Guys who were more focused on putting the moves on Vicky tended to be less focused on watching what they said or noticing when somebody made off with their phones, wallets, keys, credit cards, useful shit like that.

"I gotta hit the head," he said. "Don't have too much fun while I'm gone."

Vicky grinned and dropped a quick kiss on his mouth. "I would never."

Bob snorted, shot Matson another mildly dirty look, and headed for the restrooms.

There was only one other guy in the restroom when he got there. He went into a stall and latched it, and as soon as he heard the guy leave and the door shut, blocking out the noise of the club, he said quietly, "You get any of that?"

Greta's voice through his earpiece sounded muted and tinny after the loud buzz of the crowd and the deep thrum of the music. "Randall Matson, money guy. What else have you got for me?"

Bob had his phone out, and Matson's, and he fished the copy wire out of his pocket. He plugged one end into his phone; the other end was a bundle of wires, each with ends that fit different kinds of phones. He found the one that matched Matson's and hooked it up.

Matson didn't have his phone locked, which saved the time-consuming step of calling Patrick to remotely crack the password. Instead Bob opened a text to Greta and hit the copy/send command.

A few moments later Greta said, "Sweet. His memory is pretty full. Hopefully that means he keeps his whole life on that thing."

Bob kept half his attention on the copy progress and half on the people coming in and out of the bathroom. No one lingered and no one paid unusual interest to his closed stall, but he was still glad when the screens cleared and Greta said, "Okay, that's it. Now please go get that loser's slimy hands off my girl."

Stuffing the wires and his phone back into his pockets and tucking Matson's phone into his hand, half-hidden by his sleeve, Bob flushed the toilet and left the bathroom.

As he got closer to Vicky and the others, he grimaced. Matson had her backed up against the bar, all up in her personal space. Vicky was handling it fine -- putting just enough ice into her expression to make it clear to someone like Art that she wasn't exactly enjoying the attention, but being friendly enough that Matson didn't pick up on it and get angry or discouraged.

Unfortunately Matson wasn't a random guy on the dance floor; they needed him to not dislike them, and they knew Art well enough to know he wouldn't take kindly to Vicky kneeing his friend in the balls even if Matson was coming on to someone else's girl.

Which meant Bob was going to have to do something very unpleasant. He sighed, and then schooled his expression to get the scowl off his face.

Coming around Matson from his blind side, Bob stepped on his foot just enough that when he 'accidentally' elbowed Matson out of the way to get in beside Vicky Matson couldn't side-step. Matson started to topple sideways. Bob caught him by his coat front.

"Whoa, sorry about that." Bob got off Matson's foot and made sure he was steady, and then patted his jacket mock-apologetically to make sure Matson's phone was secure in the jacket's inside pocket. "I need to watch where I'm going."

Matson slapped Bob's hands away, a tight expression of fury and embarrassment on his face as he got his feet untangled and straightened up. Ignoring him, Bob shifted until he was nearly pressed up against Vicky. She was grinning; she slid her hands around his waist and tucked her fingers into his waistband.

"Smooth entrance, baby," she said.

Bob smiled and nuzzled her cheek. "You think that was smooth, why don't you let me take you out on the dance floor and see how many times I can step on your feet."

He took her hand when she laughed and gave Matson a bitchy wink as he led her into the crowd.

The music was a hard, steady bass-beat with some crappy techno shit laid over it, but at least it wasn't too fast-paced. Small mercies.

When they were deep enough into the crowd he stopped and turned and let Vicky hook her arms around his neck and shimmy up close to him.

"Get anything?" she said, close to his ear and just loud enough to be heard over the music.

"Don't know yet." He shrugged, half-distracted by trying to sync up his two goddamn left feet with the rhythm of the song. "Little sister's on it."

Vicky nodded, satisfied, and then pulled back enough to turn in the circle of his arms. She put a sexy little wiggle into the move, more graceful than Bob could manage in a million years, and leaned back against him, tilting her head so he could hear when she said, "And then you came and rescued me from that greasy loser by asking me to _dance_. You really do love me, don't you, Richie-poo."

Bob could swear he heard Greta's tinny, unsuccessfully muffled cackle over his earpiece, despite the noise. He scowled. "Yeah, you're hilarious. Please shut up now and help me not look like a complete fucking idiot out here, please."

"Ooh, tough assignment," Vicky said, turning to face him again with a wicked grin. "I'm not sure I can handle it."

She danced a little ways away and then came back, taking the lead, practically using him like a stripper pole so that all he would really have to do was stand there and move a little in time with the beat. Theoretically, anyway. That plan assumed he _could_ keep time with the beat.

Bob really did not think it was fair that he could get behind a drum kit and knock out complex rhythms with no problem, take down a handful of guys in a back alley fight, and do so many other things in his job that required precision coordination; but then put him on a dance floor and he was like fucking Pinocchio before he turned into a real boy.

Sighing, Bob resigned himself to the humiliation and just tried to keep up.

***


End file.
